Mama's voice trailed off.
"No, Mama. I've got to look at him. Please," I
begged.
She shook her head and then turned to
Octavious and nodded.
"Very, very quiet," he said, and practically
tiptoed down the hallway to the nursery
he and Gladys
had prepared. The wet nurse was already there. She
was a young girl not much older than me. Octavious
whispered something to her and she left without
glancing at me.
I stepped up to the cradle and peered in at baby
Paul, wrapped in his blue cotton blanket, his pink face
no bigger than a fist. His eyes were closed, but he was
breathing nicely. His skin was so soft. It was a little
crimson at the cheeks. All of his features were perfect.
Mama was right. His fingers, clutched at the blanket,
looked smaller than the fingers of any doll I had ever
had. My heart ached with my desire to touch him, to
kiss him, to hold him against my throbbing breasts
filled with milk that was meant to be his and would
never touch his lips.
"We better go," Octavious whispered. "Come on, honey," Mama urged. She put her
hand through my arm and held me at the elbow. "Good-bye, Paul," I whispered. "You'll never
know who I am. I'll never hear your cry again; never
comfort you or hear your laughing somehow,
somehow, I hope you'll sense that I'm out there, waiting anxiously for the day I can set eyes on you
again."
I kissed my finger and then touched his tiny